


Control.Alt

by miarr



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miarr/pseuds/miarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto's red mouth, kiss-bruised, gasping <i>air, air, air</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control.Alt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kokanshu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kokanshu).



> This was written a long time ago, and was originally meant for [kokanshu](http://kokanshu.livejournal.com), seeing as she's my sire when it comes to the KHR fandom (and domination kinks at large). Time has worn away its beauty, though, and it is only due to the brilliant efforts of [electricpower](http://electricpower.livejournal.com) and [ronsard](http://ronsard.livejournal.com) that it ever saw the light of day. Thanks more than I can say, you amazing savants. ♥

He likes to wrap his hands around Yamamoto‘s neck, feel the veins and corded muscles straining under his fingers as Yamamoto thrusts up, whip-sharp and intent. He‘s spread out on the bed and rocking into Gokudera, keeping some private metre, like poetry in muscles. The sight appeals to him, reminiscent of bullets flying, the satisfaction of a job well done: Yamamoto‘s red mouth, kiss-bruised, gasping _air, air, air_.

Through the pads of his thumbs he feels a heartbeat racing, faster than at any ball game, faster than the sparks of his exploding arsenal. The rhythms blur together, one pulse bleeding into the next as Yamamoto bucks and thrashes down below. His toes are curled; eyes dark and wide-blown like a drowning man‘s. Gokudera rolls his hips and _tightens_.

It elicits a choke, a dying half-breath, and Yamamoto grips the sheets with not-quite-desperation. His mouth is wide and grinning by pure reflex, trying to draw in air that Gokudera mercilessly cuts off at the passage. It‘s the smile of a suicide, laughing as he goes down under—Yamamoto always loved to sweat blood.

He‘s on his back and fully naked, legs tangled in the sheets, supporting the additional weight with easy grace. Gokudera grinds down, knees cinching Yamamoto‘s waist; his eyes are riveted to Yamamoto‘s clavicle, that dip of bone slipping away from underneath his chokehold. He takes a deep breath, lets his fingers tighten like a vise.

The familiar trove of rings and bracelets flash in the darkness, sharp chinks biting into Yamamoto‘s skin. It‘s half-macabre, claustrophobic, like being shackled with a crown of thorns. Gokudera‘s breath hitches when he thinks about the week-long bruises on the carotids. It‘s just the two of them alone: him pressing down, crushing, and Yamamoto smiling at him with eyes like shards of glass after a fire. His face is blanched except for two high spots of colour—no blood, just pure adrenaline.

They never speak—they never _can_, Yamamoto lacking air and him lacking proper words. Instead they fill the space with guttersounds, animal growls growing stronger, then weaker as Yamamoto‘s eyes flutter on the brink of shutting. His movements become wilder, less controlled: anathema to the precision of the sword or the playing field. The only noises he can make now are strangled, ragged things, dizzy with the burn of garrotted arteries. Gokudera listens and remembers thinking, _pianissimo, crescendo, vivace assai_—that there is music in these dying gasps_._

_Bellissimo._

And it‘s true: they have formed routine, a regular tempo, like some unexpected half-beat that repeats itself with every count. They don‘t have a regular time or place, no plans, no understanding; just the shared purpose of a bed, sometimes a couch. It‘s short and hot and vicious—Yamamoto trapped behind walls of equability and Gokudera methodically blowing them up, one by fucking one.

There is too little oxygen in the room, too little control; enough for one of them or the other, but not both. It‘s a matter of survival, of who breaks down first.

Gokudera tightens his grip; lets his head tip back and breathes in what‘s there, slowly, with relish. The air is cold on his tongue, smoky-sweet with curling nicotine. Beneath him, Yamamoto closes his eyes and gives himself up with a smile.


End file.
